Dissatisfied Father I Disowned My Son After He Called Me a Garbage CollectorChapter 1
All my life, my only ambition as a farmer was to raise a son who would amount to something.
I never imagined that at the gala celebrating his company's public listing, my presence would be his greatest shame.
When the guests asked who I was, panic flashed in my son's eyes. His composure cracked. He stammered.
"This is… Mr. Lambert. A sanitation worker from my hometown. He watched me grow up. I'm… very grateful to him."
Applause rippled through the crowd. They praised his humility—a CEO who remembered the little people.
But the relatives my son had hired—those leeches he'd brought into the company—looked at me with undisguised mockery.
"Old Lambert really is something," one whispered loud enough for me to hear. "Showing up at a time like this? Is he trying to humiliate Joshua?"
"A dirt-poor farmer should stay in the mud where he belongs," another sneered.
My son couldn't get away from me fast enough.
Standing there in the glitter of the banquet hall, a cold realization settled into my gut. I had raised this boy. Poured my life into him.
And it felt like I had done it all for nothing.
——
I left the celebration early and found the cheapest guesthouse near the railway station.
Twenty bucks a night. The sheets reeked of mildew and stale smoke.
The hard mattress dug into my spine as I stared at the water-stained ceiling. The scene at the banquet played on a loop—a torture I couldn't switch off.
Images of my son flickered through my mind. The toddler who recited poetry at three. The five-year-old who insisted on carrying the foot-washing basin for his mother.
Now, those memories were overlaid by the cold, indifferent figure in the tailored suit.
He never gave me trouble in school. Our mud-brick walls were plastered with his academic certificates. To pay his tuition, I sold every grain of harvest I had.
When that wasn't enough, I sold my blood.
When his mother lay dying, she refused treatment. She hoarded every penny so he could finish his degree.
I remember her gripping my hand—her grip weak, but urgent.
*"Asher, our boy is meant for great things. We have to lift him up. Send him out into the world. When he succeeds, we'll finally enjoy some peace."*
She was gone now.
And I had lost him too.
There was no peace.
A crushing weight pressed against my chest, as if a giant hand were squeezing my heart.